I don’t just want you in me—
I want you beside me in everyday life.
I want to look after you,
when your body is sore,
when everything feels heavy on you—
I want to hold you in bed,
be there in the quiet, ordinary moments.
Not just the planned time away.
Not just the passion.
Though I want that too.
I feel it—
deep down.
You don’t understand what you do to me.
My body gives in to you—
warm, ready,
like you’ve taken your time
learning exactly how to undo me.
Like you know the places to touch
without even thinking.
I come apart for you
so easily,
over and over—
like my body is already listening for you,
already waiting.
I tremble under it,
under you,
every time.
And still—
there’s an ache in me too,
something deeper,
settled in my chest.
You say I’m biased.
But I see you.
I see the way you hold yourself together,
the way you wear the mask—
and I want to be there
when you take it off.
When it’s just you,
no holding it in,
no shaping yourself for anyone—
I want that version of you too.
I see your scars—
I’ve traced them with my fingertips,
with my tongue,
slow,
like I’m learning you.
I’ve made a map of you.
Every mark,
every imperfection—
I know them.
And that’s why I love you.
Your weirdness pulls me in,
the way you make me feel like
I can say anything—
like the truth just spills out of me
without even trying.
Lying there, naked,
my hands moving over your hips,
over everything you’ve been through—
I fall deeper.
Harder.
I want you in all your broken parts,
your tired parts—
not instead of them,
but because of them.
You say this is our kind of love—
but is there any other kind
that feels like this?
Because you’re already in me.
Not halfway,
not lightly—
I’ve taken you in,
felt you,
learned you,
let you live under my skin.
So don’t tell me I don’t see you.
I do.
I see you completely—
I want you in the ordinary parts of life,
in the darkness of the night,
in the quiet,
in the chaos—
not just in moments.
In all of it.